| (no subject) |
[Jul. 2nd, 2009|04:29 am] |
I went to the airport today to send a friend off, wondering over the fact that I could have been performing the same ritual 13 days from today: eating Popeye's with my second brother, calling my friends for a last-minute goodbye, dragging my luggage, pushing the trolley around excitedly like a child until my mother yells at me to behave (even at 20), clinging onto my father, looking at the departure screens of the airport telly. I narrated the sequence of my thoughts to a friend. "Yeah, I know," she looked at me sadly. "Dammit, I didn't get to get the five dollar voucher at Popeye's for departing passengers. And I don't get to do the Jackpot Redemption thing beyond the departure gates, damn!" She laughed appreciatively. "You always have a way of making things look better/cheering things up". Hell yeah; if I didn't, I'd be killing myself by now, no?
I could be in New York in two weeks time, setting a trail for the devil to erase. I guess the devil got to me first. Goodbye for now, New York, and all the lovers and love that could have come with it. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 16th, 2009|12:45 am] |
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My apartment will probably look like a child-care centre. It'll be (a) cosy (b) lived-in (c) warm. I'll probably have the bare minimum of furniture because I'll forget to put that on my housing expenses list and splurge on art prints, small framed photographs, and wall decals. The first thing I think of is never furniture, but art on my walls, and it's highly likely I'll sleep on a mattress. But of course, I'll need a dining area for my voracious eating habits, and a good quality non-stick frying pan and eggs in my fridge. Last of all, I'll have a chicken jug sitting atop a counter, sticking incongruously out of the entire aesthetic of the apartment. Visitors will greet my chicken jug with either disgust, or bewilderment, or amusement. It will be an awkward point in conversations whenever we pass by the conspicuous chicken jug during the tour of the apartment. They will struggle with a point to be made, stammering diplomatically and politely, "uhh... well, that's a... unique... umm piece of twisted sculpture you got that. So... what is it?" or replace the word "unique" with an ambiguous "weird" or a diplomatic "ill-fitting" or a brutal "ugly". But I will defend it with a "what? It's cute what. I like it" and that will be the end of the conversation. We will then move to another part of the apartment and the visitor will sigh inwardly with relief and direct the conversation to somewhere more safe like my Edward Hopper art print. Housewarming gifts like abstract art will be rejected on the spot, unless it comes with ridiculous pretentious explanations that I enjoy, amused, with an assumed superiority complex. |
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| kenalkan cinta |
[Jun. 1st, 2009|05:08 am] |
Oh, fuck. Sometimes I wish I had a damn dramatic love life, practically filmic and with elements of utter corny drama which would be forgiven because of brilliant cinematography. I'd throw a few outfits and belongings into a travelling bag that looks vaguely fred perry, hop straight into a yellow-top cab, yell out, Changi Airport! (local) and please hurry, uncle, sit back and furiously punch out a number frantically, senselessly and call repetitively on my cell phone. It goes unanswered; an expression of anxiety, frustration and worry marring my countenance, I sit back giving short terse replies to the cab driver, insistent on carrying out a conversation. Perhaps I might explain the complicated and ridiculous (not to mention, fictional) situation to the driver, who will look at my reflection in the rearview mirror, with a look of pitying sympathy. (at night he will sigh and mumble a summary of this encounter to his wife who will glare angrily at him and blame him inwardly for their sad marriage and how they "don't talk" nowadays) Upon reaching the airport, you'll see me leaping out of the cab and running through the bright-lit spaces of the airport, looking around for a counter. I try to buy a ticket, the girl at the counter refuses politely, citing lack of seats. I beg, plead, and cry for her to check again. I stare at my watch, hoping that the flight of this hour will be delayed. Please, please, don't leave, I'm really sorry, I want to rush to you now and we can be real friends with each other this time. Perhaps finally, there is a ticket after all! Subtitles aren't available so you won't be able to guess the destination printed on the air ticket as I mumble out my flight details to check. And then......
nothing, because this entire thing is just lame. But maybe I said... I need a flight ticket to Hong Kong pronto. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 30th, 2009|07:13 am] |
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I wil mis yu lyk fuk. yu don't spalz tu gud but that is okay. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 3rd, 2009|05:06 am] |
| [ | music |
| | The Difference Between Men and Women - Bill Cosby (speech) | ] |
Tonight, M and I decided that we set the benchmark for girls guys never ever want their girls to be. Like being in those brochures with pictorial comparisons of school uniform rules, facial treatments, marie france bodyline before and after, std etc etc, you'll see us in the pictures marked with an "X" at the bottom. I'm always frivolously in love with people I can't even have. I'm not intensely intellectual, nor remotely hot, and I tend to laugh at more things than being serious about them. I sit along the streets till 3am, most of us sprawled around drunk in a most unglamorous fashion, cigarette butts littering the pavement (if I'm pretentious I will write: "cigarette butts littering the pavement like poetry"; I love deliberate self-aware pretentiousness). I am basically fucking ridiculous. Cue self-deprecate, because that's the only thing that makes us laugh genuinely at ourselves in the least hurtful and even playful and fun fashion. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 25th, 2009|02:50 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Cuban Danube - Klazz Brothers & Cuba Percussion | ] |
cb, my studying is going at the rate of a snail strolling in botanic gardens, riddled with all sorts of distractions (read Restaurant City on facebook). Read Strasberg, now, now, now! (but Kerouac says burn, burn, burn) |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 18th, 2009|11:24 pm] |
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Okay you know what? This is just fucking crazy. I am just going to concentrate on... normal activities. Like sk8boarding, going to bars without drinking, attempting to read the complete R & J text for the 8th time (I have never gotten past the first nine pages), dreaming, watching 'Allo 'Allo, snacking excessively etc etc. Everyone's either a new str8-turned-lesbian on the block, or a bloody player. Wah like that, I also can be player oredi. What the fuck. Oh, and everyone's also an actor too. I just... I'm just completely fucking floored at the moment. Just about anything can be possible. Fuck, I'm going to end up marrying an engineer. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 6th, 2009|12:53 am] |
| [ | music |
| | bob dylan - you belong to me | ] |
![trainspotting]](http://i326.photobucket.com/albums/k413/starsandvines/thetrainrushedpast.jpg)
Martina and I went trainspotting again last week. When we were nearing the tracks, we spotted an old woman holding onto a lot of grocery bags and crossing the tracks. It seemed nearly surreal, as if she would vanish like a gnome soon after.
Waiting for the trains, we took ridiculous low-quality photos (from my handphone camera) that was expected (and predictably dangerous) behaviour at railway tracks - for instance, lying across the tracks. We tried skipping stones in huge puddles of ditch water, like kampong boys. When the train came (unexpectedly from a different direction) and honked at us, I yelled "Martina!" and actually dove into a ditch, or rather, one of those huge ponds of awful ditch water, drenching my shoes completely (one of those stupid things in life you do). Martina didn't have enough time to get down, and she stood there right next to the rushing train, while I took the above photograph, soaked to the ankles. The train driver stuck his head out. The moment was magnificent.
Thereafter, smoking stale fags, we sat on the tracks and tried to write lyrical compositions on rocks with our pathetic stationery meant for school. We came up with "YOU ARE MY ROCK", "MY FRIEND VICKI LIES HERE", and "DELIVERY STR8 FROM THE ♥ OF MISERY". Meanwhile, we noted people crossing the tracks like it was a perfectly ordinary pedestrian crossing. Four men perambulated across like they were the Beatles in that iconic picture. A man unleashed his dog and threw sticks for it to fetch, as they took a walk down the tracks. I discarded my wet Spongebob socks along the side of the track and a spider crawling all over it for at least a good half an hour, probably hesitating if it should make my damp, moist sock, its new home. Unfortunately, I spoilt the beatnik vagabond blues moment by asking crassly, "eh, pass me my chrysanthemum tea". But everything else was wonderful. I love trainspotting. |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 27th, 2009|10:17 pm] |
There's a pasar malam in my neighbourhood! Sadly, it's the last night that it's there, and I'm sitting at home forlornly over leftovers for dinner, and unable and not in the mood to engage in Fried Food Greasy Oily as Iraq Paradise, with bright stall lights shining and heating up my body as I stand eagerly and close to the food stalls. Oh, my pasar malam! It has been years! Oh, my pasar malam! My sorrow is infinite as I pine for the night market, the bright lights, and the candy cane striped canvas tops. (speaking of which, whatever happened to the Viking ships and the bumper cars of the old pasar malams?)
This is the first Friday night when I'm actually at home, probably since the last twenty Fridays. Already, I wish I was back in the Conservatory library, even if to read Milton. Two nights ago, I raised the issue of the possible want to stay on-campus for my returning semester, and it was met with some degree of approval and consent. But it was only to test the waters; what I really want is to move into a residence on-campus right now, at this time, if only the halls and residences would allow it. Ideally, I would move off-campus to Commonwealth - if only that area was cleaner though -, next to the train tracks, and be submerged in deep quiet every night, the quiet that is only broken sporadically by the sound of passing trains but that ceases after eleven pm. |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 26th, 2009|02:18 am] |
Martina and I went trainspotting two nights ago, but we went slightly late and waited for trains that didn't come. It was cold from the evening rain and the air was still; if only there was a night wind, we could have had trenchcoats, and squat by the railway tracks beside some squalid hostels, old flats and a playground (with no swings), waiting for something (maybe an informant, like Godot). In the much yearned-for quiet, we sat like men, next to the railway tracks, smoking cigarettes and worrying about everything. Nearing midnight, we stuffed our hands into the pockets of our jackets, pulled on our hoods, and walked back to the train station through this new hood of ours. We'll see the trains again some day, brother.
Last night, after rehearsal at the chapel, I walked down the lengthy street, smoking a broken cigarette (to see if it would still work, and I didn't want to throw it away or put it back in the box, for props), stopped by one of those 24hour eating places, and ate a plate of maggi mee goreng with egg hurriedly, and continued walking towards the stadium, flagging cabs periodically and half-heartedly. I didn't really know where I was going, but I just wanted a cheaper fare. Eventually, I reached home at 2am. I guess I need a change. |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 15th, 2009|05:55 am] |
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Am going through a pretty bad patch now. Sorry, I don't have the energy to deal with some things, or be sympathetic towards certain complications (even if they involve me in a discreet fashion which only I know about anyway). So what if I had the most complete Valentine's Day ever? - started off with doing what I love (acting); the excitement in between the matinee and the evening performance, the exhilaration when it all (5 shows) came to a close; kissed a beautiful French man (side profile is awesome) who looks like a sensitive and poetic painter; and finally, anger, sadness, and numbness, to conclude the entire fucking day. So what if all that happened? At the end of the day, there is a physical pain which I can feel spreading over my chest, pervading the lungs and every blood vessel throughout; a muffled thump of hurt like someone pounding on a piece of cardboard placed on my chest. |
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| pseudo heartbreak |
[Feb. 3rd, 2009|04:13 am] |
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I'm really just very heartbroken and beat up. "You seemed a little sad at the end. Is there a problem? I prefer you when you're joyful". I can't always be joyful. The train passed me by, and my eyes followed it. I wanted to cry. Brudder, nothing we ever do is right. |
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| the red and blue drains away; it's love innit? |
[Jan. 9th, 2009|03:55 am] |
there's blue and red running through her veins she's blue and fuming mad at the same time types way too fast on the laptop to succinctly write what she's feeling it's a spillover takes huge strides to the bathroom cries hard and fast sobs grabs the clothes steps in the hot shower oooh warmth like hands and touch that makes the body breathe and tingle swears like a hot-blooded russian sailor swears fuck fuck fuck i'm gonna go out the door everything why fuck why then self-censoring struggles shuts the tap continues fuming she opens the door into the room settles in looks at the bed and the sleeping figure then.
she crawls into the bed beside her for a hug; within the warmth transmitted between the two bodies, the previous blue and red drains away, and there's a sudden awareness and curiosity tingling through the first wanting body. so this is love, and i know it. |
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| FUCK 2009 |
[Jan. 8th, 2009|03:07 am] |
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oh yeah so now i'm a parasite a leech a goddamn player a insensitive inconsiderate cb fucking bastard poor excuse of a human ever birthed an animal eating leftovers an uncaring rootless traveller bent on treating every lodging like a motel i rent cars frequently and i scratch and leave piss and beercans i don't replenish toilet rolls whenever i'm a housemate no help with groceries but to just gobble them up and complain about hunger next week next week next week next weekend the week after i have school i have activities i have cca i have rehearsals you got my back really so quit complaining your other blood being used to treat this like a hotel he even got the baggage down the room that he never unpacks but you don't say a word cos he's a man and you can't burst open the bathroom door but only when it's a girl it's the house it's the poverty it's the stinking dynamics you got more than one i'm very tired of this friction that's starting off the year this is the last straw and i'll lie i'll lie i'll lie you're never going to see me go back voluntarily out out out the door i barrel and go. |
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| 2009; january |
[Jan. 8th, 2009|01:03 am] |
| [ | music |
| | elliott smith - miss misery (early version); [lyrics here incomplete] | ] |
I'll fake it through the day
With some help from Johnny Walker Red
And the cold pain behind my eyes
That shoots back through my head
Two tickets torn in half
And a lot with nothing to do
Tarot cards and the lines in my hand
Tell me I'm wrong, but they're untrue
I got plans for both of us
That involve a trip out of town
To a place I've seen in a magazine
That you left lying around
I can't hold my liquor but
I keep a good attitude
Next door, the TV's flashing
Blue frames on the wall
It's a comedy from the seventies
With a lead no one recalls
He vanished into oblivion
It's easy to do
And I cried a sea when you talked to me
The day you said we were through
*
resolution 2009: to keep (and stay) clean, at least till Toronto.
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| 2008 |
[Dec. 29th, 2008|06:52 am] |
| [ | music |
| | belle & sebastian - beautiful | ] |
she thought it would be fun to try photography
she thought it would be fun to try pornography
she thought it would be fun to try most anything
she was tired of sleeping |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 7th, 2008|11:17 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Belle & Sebastian - Judy Is a Dick Slap | ] |
Fuck material consumption and related desires, they say, but dang we all know that everyone's a damn hypocrite - except the saints and the would-be saints. I should be ashamed of my material wants, but gee, I can't help it. Before anything else, I apologise for taking up the entire Friends' Page - I don't fucking know why lj-cut doesn't work for my posts! It used to!
of desires and materials (in order of degree of desire):
![100 Love Sonnets / Cien Sonetos De Amor by Pablo Neruda [translation by Stephen Tapscott (necessarily so)]](http://i326.photobucket.com/albums/k413/starsandvines/100LoveSonnets.jpg)
Yes, it must necessarily by the Stephen Tapscott translation. Thanks to ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) t_aimer who first lent me her copy! I read it on a five-hour bus coach tide to KL.
One of my favourite films ever; screw other stupid romcoms, this is the Real Deal. I have managed to watch this 7 times, with various groups of friends over the years, and dang I still love it so. Sharon said she might be getting this for me - our annual ritual of asking each other what we each want because our birthdays fall very near each other, and failing to come to any conclusion.
First three excerpts, and the last excerpt (24th) from Siken's You Are Jeff:
1
There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which twin you are in love with at the time. Do not choose sides yet. It is still to your advantage to remain impartial. Both motorbikes are shiny red and both boys have perfect teeth, dark hair, soft hands. The one in the front will want to take you apart, and slowly. His deft and stubby fingers searching every shank and lock for weaknesses. You could love this boy with all your heart. The other brother only wants to stitch you back together. The sun shines down. It is a beautiful day. Consider the hairpin turn. Do not choose sides yet.
2
There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road. Let's call them Jeff. And because the first Jeff is in the front we'll consider him the older, and therefore responsible for lending money and the occasional punch in the shoulder. World-wise, world-weary, and not his mother's favorite, this Jeff will always win when it all comes down to fisticuffs. Unfortunately for him, it doesn't always all come down to fisticuffs. Jeff is thinking about his brother down the winding road behind him. He is thinking that only if he could cut him open and peel him back and crawl inside this second skin, then he could relive that last mile again: reborn, wild-eyed, free.
3
There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which Jeff you are. It could have been so beautiful—you scout out the road ahead and I will watch your back, how it was and how it will be, memory and fantasy—but each Jeff wants to be the other one. My name is Jeff and I'm tired of looking at the back of your head. My name is Jeff and I'm tired of seeing my hand me down clothes. Look, Jeff, I'm telling you, for the last time, I mean it, etcetera. They are the same and they are not the same. They are the same and they hate each other for it.
24
You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you've done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you're tired. You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and you're trying not to tell him that you love him, and you're trying to choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you didn't even have a name for.
I didn't manage to finish watching all the episodes when it was showing on Central.
One of my favourite classics - Valmont is the most charming man ever; it doesn't matter what a bastard he is. Decadent, wicked, controversial, loads of devious scheming, sex, betrayal, deflowering of young virginal and religious girls - what's there not to like?
Ah! Wong Kar Wai's In The Mood For Love DVD Criterion Collection. Okay, I have it on my laptop, but still... One of my absolute favourites.
Material Things I Can Only Get If I Have an Excessively Wealthy Lover or am Too Rich Myself
I swear that I will one day get my paws on this.
I love Season Three!
Dante's La Vita Nuova, SGD 25.68 from Kinokuniya. Not that important, but have been eyeing it for some time.
Tim Walker's beautiful spread of fashion photography!
Dante's Divine Comedy (Boxed Set), SGD 50.83 from Kinokuniya. Not that essential as well, but well, it would be nice to have and read it.
50 paintings by Michael Sowa, a German artist. His paintings are darn whimsical. Try Googling (Image) him.
Finally, a LOMO camera! I've just been resigned to browsing through lomo photos and polaroids online wistfully. I've been trying to save up for one for ages, but saving up is futile. I end up spending money on necessary items like... socks, and... Old Chang Kee. And I need more clothes, as mostly everyone else does. I am sick of BJ commenting that "it is true that you are always wearing the same thing". Well, I'm sorry, my parents don't work in town councils, and unlike you, I can't afford an air ticket to anybloodywhere, so one must forgive the poorly furnished closet. And umm some few other... 'essentials'. And a ticket to Ting Tings Live. And... other stuff. And... well, we all need some money.
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 2nd, 2008|03:24 am] |
| [ | music |
| | Belle & Sebastian - Take Your Carriage Clock and Shove It | ] |
So even before my exams end, I have already started working.
Wait, hold on, you must be saying with a measure of bewilderment and incredulity. V works? For money? What's this? Has V finally stepped out of her apparent image of a "poor, struggling bohemian arts student" (J's words), volunteering ever since she finished the secondary part of her education at the age of 18? Well, might I remind these skeptics that I have actually engaged in paid labour before: at a upscale restaurant-and-bar located in town and which had a racist working environment; a diner with a raucous kitchen crew who threw pasta strands around at each other and ogled at pretty customers on a extremely regular basis; a babysitter of up to six kids cum an admin temp performing mindnumbingly, fist-eatingly boring and inane duties like slashing envelopes open for two hours; at a semiconductor trade fair, wielding a laser scanner and scanning the namecards of unsuspecting patrons whose names were going to be uploaded into the company's database (although I thought of more pertinent uses for the scanner i.e blinding my irritating temporary manager, or pretending it to be a treasure detector and hold it towards the floor like a Hoover and scattering the Japanese businessmen on the trading floor); at a bookstore with Arctic levels of temperature and hence forcing the staff to bundle themselves up like Mongolian children during winter. And not to mention other paid assignments relating to acting.
Having stated the paid jobs part of my wonderfully awful curriculum vitae, it seems to paint myself a worker of menial jobs and begs the question of what's next, an attendant at a gas station, or a ticketing assistant at the docks? I should hence stop terming my volunteering stints as mere "volunteering"; it's really also about work - just... unpaid work for a cause, or at least, a semblance of a cause. Ah, with that, let us continue from here.
*
Tiger! Tiger! They call out, and proceed to abuse me by giving me knocks to my furry head, and discussing impertinent issues such as "Look, the Tiger has a tail. Let's pull it". It is highly ironic that the activist herself has to say "Stop abusing the animals!" and guide me away. Holding my tail with my furry paws (which can't even pick up a piece of paper off the floor), I steal away to behind the fake tree and vines and take off the head for a quick breath. With the recent white tigers mauling a suicidal cleaner at the zoo issue, I have to tolerate jokes about how fortunate it is that I am not a white tiger. Ha ha ha. Very funny, I'm laughing inside my costume, while sweat streams down my face and my shirt sticks to my body inside the costume. "They don't know the nightmare behind this costume", says my elephant friend in a muffled voice. He holds his big elephant head with his two not-so-furry (actually, cloth) hands, lest the weight of it propels it to fall forward and expose the inner human. It makes him look like an elephant with a perpetual look of shock and horror. Very fitting for the cause though - wildlife protection, save the endangered species, stop the horrific deforestation etc.
We look at the orang utan. She's in the midst of the interactive part of the assembly show, falling to the floor as a child, acting, steals her baby. She seems to be the favourite among children, followed by the elephant. Whatever happened to the grandeur of the tiger?! I protest inwardly, sweating. When a kid attempts to throw a punch at my furry tiger torso (I seem to be using "tiger" as an adjective in the manner of Allo Allo's Herr Flick and the phrase "Gestapo" i.e "my Gestapo binoculars", "my Gestapo car"), I grab him gently and hug him. Ah, soft power. His soft small body presses against my furry stomach, and he wraps his arms around this tiger. Awwww, goes some of the kids, and they start to wrestle around for a hug as well. But two kids continue to box my head, until the activist calls for a stop to the abuse.
Show's over in fifteen minutes. We head out, lugging and dragging the props, the screen and all, to the carpark. The activist goes "Shit" as she pauses at the door. Fuck, window's broken.
Valuables? Check. Cashcard? Check. Clearly an act of malicious vandalism and a warning threat to these activists. Nothing was taken. We clear the shards, bits and pieces of glass off the seats and the window after the policemen leave and photographs are taken. The act of traders or the relevant affected, threatened by the activist efforts and the cause they have adopted. Fools, they will continue to press on with their efforts. It is sad, but says much about the group - effective. At least, a slightly exciting touch to the morning. Whoever says that the activist scene here in Singapore is dead and useless and boring? The attack is a testament to the constructive efforts of these activists.
*
I started on my second job (unpaid) in the very same week, grappling with a mic, stuttering, mind trying to work quick to come up with different and relevant questions to the assignment at hand. Broadcast interviewer and reporter and new to the team, I made my way in the rain to a meeting last week with the media team, and the various editors and people of the other teams. Political website? Media? No, just a blog focusing on local political and social issues. It seems intimidating to be around some of these brilliant and driven people; let's see how it goes. |
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| Tan Kin Lian running for elections? |
[Nov. 25th, 2008|02:26 pm] |
"It is not important to me, whether I win or lose the contest. It is more important that the people in Singapore will win, and that there will be a contest [...] I hope to choose a course that is best for Singapore. It does not matter to me, if I win or lose the presidential election. Even if I win (and the possibilty is remote), there is nothing much that can be done by obstructing or embarrassing the government in power."
-- Tan Kin Lian's response in The Online Citizen
Tan Kin Lian for elections - conspiracy theory or For Real? Substantial or superficial? TKL to stay in consultancy (and running his blog) or running for elections? And if for real, a catalyst for change or the radical change itself? Honestly, I haven't decided yet, but here's the form - spread the word, the possibility for something new (or even change). Otherwise, skepticism may be disguised as pure laziness and apathy. I should be reading more than just The Online Citizen, but the library calls. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 16th, 2008|03:21 am] |
| [ | music |
| | Spinto Band - Japan Is An Island | ] |
Clubbing mates for December and beyond that, please!
God, last night was pretty much nearly a complete fiasco - except the firming up of connections and existing ties with Boy Surf&Turf. Thing is, I can't even remember the chronology and the exact details of what happened or even what I said last night. The engagement in intellectual conversation with an interior designer was slightly surreal, if not rather disastrous. Talking about Gehry at 4am at a coffeeshop, whilst drunk with a bowl of bak chor mee in front of you, is not easy. To be honest, if M. had not affirmed the presence of Frayn, I would have thought he was a product of an imagination aided by drink. Other than talking randomly to a lost English tourist from Manchester who was impressed by our "perverse knowledge of UK culture" (sitting by the Singapore River at 5am, chatting about Belle & Sebastian, and Little Britain among other things whilst the sun rose), and chatting with boys in drag, long-haired interior designers, and utterly boring girls, the rest of the night was rather awful in retrospect, although this is merely our neurotic opinions. Frog went back despite r-r-r-r-repeated attempts to have him to s-s-s-s-stay. BB fucking abandoned and literally ran away from us. And Boy Surf&Turf though responsive, must have thought us mad, barbaric, horrendously unrefined, disgusting and Neanderthal-like. Honestly, I don't know what boys think of us, and I don't think I really want to know. |
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